


Sex is Not the Enemy, and Neither Are Ex-Wives

by ladyflowdi



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Anal Sex, Established Relationship, M/M, PWP, Sex Is Not The Enemy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-26
Updated: 2010-06-26
Packaged: 2017-12-12 02:28:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/806107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyflowdi/pseuds/ladyflowdi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The thing about realizations is that they don’t go away, not really, not when they’re the world-rockin’ type and this one is most definitely that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sex is Not the Enemy, and Neither Are Ex-Wives

**Author's Note:**

> Posting this so I can have everything on AO3 -- giving you major side-eye, LJ, just so we're clear.

Leonard comes to a realization one evening when Jim is fucking and fucking and fucking him, slow as molasses under the old, creaking fan, summer heat slick between them and the sun like fire over Jim’s bare, beautiful back. The thing about realizations, though, is that they don’t go away, not really, not when they’re the world-rockin’ type and this one is most definitely that.

He should never have brought Jim here, back home this time of year, with the peach trees in full bloom and Atlanta celebrating mid-summer with afternoon naps and fresh iced tea. Shouldn’t have brought Jim home to meet his baby girl, though watching her small face twist with indignation before smoothing out into love as Jim wooed her right off her feet had been worth the price of admission. Shouldn’t have let Jim meet Jocelyn, even though it’d been years now and the bad blood had long ago eased between them, because he’d charmed her too, damned snake-in-the-grass, got them an invite at her Sunday dinner table. 

It’s the only reason Jim’s fucking him. Not that Jim ever needs a reason, the kid is all gland and if men think about sex every ten seconds, Jim thinks about it every one, though for that Leonard has never complained. It’s just that they’ve laid out the only Sunday best they brought with them, ironed to within an inch of its life, and Jim’s fucking him hard because he wants Leonard to squirm, to sit at that table and eat dinner with his ex-wife and her god damned new beau and think of nothing but his asshole, hot and puffy and swollen, smeared maybe, yeah, because Jim likes to mark him, leave him wet and filthy and Leonard moans, can’t help it rumbling right through him, and Jim whispers, “Yeah, _yeah_.”

He goes harder, pistons and shoves Leonard up the bed and they’re all wrong, Leonard’s smushed against the pillows and his head is about to fall off the edge of the bed and there’s nowhere to grab onto, nowhere to stop himself. His fingers scramble over Jim’s shoulders and Jim hisses, “Yes,” and hauls Leonard in closer, shoves his legs up higher like Leonard’s a fucking rubber band or something. It’s going to hurt, the strain in his thighs, and maybe Jocelyn will realize why Leonard’s having a hard time moving, why it hurts to sit in those hard wooden chairs he made himself long before Jo was born, and he snarls back, “You kinky _fuck_ ,” and doesn’t pretend Jim’s laugh is anything but evil.

He loves this part, loves it when Jim’s face starts to go slack and he angles Leonard’s hips up and strikes right _there_ , perfect, the head of his cock smack-dab into Leonard’s prostate and it feels so damned good it's all Leonard can do to remember how to breathe. Loves it when Jim slows down from that fever pace to screw in, hips twisting so Leonard will feel how full he is, how much cock he’s got inside him, how deep Jim is. And Jim’s grinning, sweat dripping in his eyes, as he says, “Touch yourself,” and Leonard is helpless to obey.

The first grip around his dick is heaven, and suddenly his hand’s flying, and he’s losing control, bucking hard between Jim and his hand, an unbroken loop of want. Jim is hissing, “Yes, yes, like that, you’re gorgeous,” and Leonard isn’t, he _isn’t_ , except sometimes he feels like he might be when Jim loses control like this, when he starts to pound into him again until the pleasure and the ache and the pain are mingling all together, burning Leonard from the inside out.

Jim groans above him and screws in hard one last time and all Leonard can think about is the way Jim reaches down and holds himself and comes right against Leonard’s hole, wish he had a mirror to see it even though he can _feel_ it, wet against the burning rim where it aches something fierce. Jim comes and comes until Leonard feels like he’s going to start screaming and then Jim pushes it all right back in, right where he always thinks his come belongs, deep inside where no one gets to be but him. He shudders and fucks in and Leonard moans, thrashes, can’t help himself for the need that goes through him, deep inside his belly where Jim is marking his place.

After a minute, endless and painful, Jim pulls out, thumbs at the swollen little hole until Leonard squeezes unconsciously, and Jim looks up at him and whispers, “Keep it in.”

Leonard comes, one second to another, so hard his entire body contracts and his heels dig into Jim’s shoulders and the sound he makes can probably be heard in the next county, and Leonard doesn’t think it has ever been this fucking good, on damp sheets that smell of honeysuckle and orange blossoms, in his home away from home.

Later, later when he wakes up and they’re still in the same ridiculous position, his legs propped up on Jim and the pillows and the sun starting to set, Leonard thinks about his mid-fuck realization and murmurs, “You’re one dirty bastard, you know that?”

Leonard can’t see Jim much, not with his legs in the way, and he’d move them if they didn’t feel like they were attached to tinder blocks, but since it’s Jim’s fault anyway that Leonard’s muscles have gone to water he doesn’t bother. Jim doesn’t seem to mind much, anyway, thumbing sweet at the old scar on Leonard’s knee, or more probably a crust of come. “Who, me?” Jim says, the very picture of innocence, and kisses Leonard’s ankle.


End file.
